Tics
by IronKitten
Summary: A nervous tap of the finger, a thoughtless prod of a scar--Harley knew his every little movement. And she was going to have to use them if she wanted more of him. TDK, sort of could be a very early precursor to Fifteen Minutes.


Fingertips swept across her shoulders. She shuddered, violently, their touch so light she barely registered them. Her heart fluttered and she heard his high-pitched little giggle as he moved past her, up to his work table. Letting her know what she wouldn't be getting much more of while he poured over blueprints and files and numbers.

Harley's nostrils flared as she suppressed a gasp and instead came away with a sharp inhale; she turned her head and watched the Joker, brightly toned shirt half un-tucked, take a seat at the wooden slab, its layer of papers like a white and blue tablecloth. She tried to peel away his clothes with her eyes, but to so little avail.

He was…stingy.

Ten times. And they'd been living together for two months.

There were other things to think about, he said. Business with the Bat, and future Arkham escape plans, and dealings with what was left of the mob. He had a point. But there was _always_ time in which they could be…playing. And they weren't.

And it was almost _painful._

Like it was now.

Her body was empty, her flesh unscathed, her lips unbitten. When he was through with her, she was aware of herself—every inch. There wasn't anything that _didn't_ hurt, nothing she didn't feel. And as she basked in her soreness, in the horrible tenderness of her bones, he would go about as usual.

Maybe that was why he almost never let her come to bed with him, she enjoyed it too much.

Harley's fingers trembled against the arm of the couch. She needed him. Badly. But he didn't need her.

Yet.

A little light bulb clicked on in the back of her blonde head as she pictured his face, scarred, bleached, gouged, and her soul ached. Maybe the trick wasn't waiting around, patient, for him to come to her.

Maybe it was _her_ job.

After all, he was always…so absorbed. So consumed with his work. With himself. Maybe _she_ needed to snap him out of it.

He'd been needing a break, anyways.

Rising to her bare feet, almost needing to pull herself from the deeply-sunken couch, Harley padded across the room and up the five iron stairs to Joker's "work station."

He stiffened as soon as she was a foot behind him, the scratching of his pen stopping and leaving way to dead silence. The girl's throat tightened and she took a step closer, resting her hands on the back of his chair.

"Whatcha workin' on, Mistah Jay?"

She heard him inhale, pause, and then release before again bending over his work. _Skritchskritchskritch._

Pink lips curled into a deep pout. Harley bent down, eyes closed, and let her mouth graze his hair.

"_Har_-lee."

She didn't care. Not a bit. She needed him.

Her mouth opened against green locks and she took in the unwashed scent of him—four nights, he'd been up, working, working, working. She didn't mind. Even without having bathed, his scent was consuming. It wasn't what one might normally dub "attractive," but it was him—and that made it so.

"_Har. Lee. Quinn._ Daddy is…working. Go off and…_play_ with some _friends_ or something, huh?"

Her arms slid over his shoulders. "I ain't got any friends, Mistah Jay. Not now."

His shoulders went limp, jerked, shifted; rejected her touch. "Then go, uh, buy a _dog_ or something."

Sighing, Harley swung around and perched on a mostly-empty section of the table. He didn't acknowledge her movement with more than an irritated twitch of the eye. But when she kept her distance, bit her tongue, he didn't send her away.

This was good.

Progress.

Right?

Her legs crossed.

Not a word.

Her fingertips drummed, lightly.

Nothing.

Harley felt her frown go frown deep to deeper. But she was almost just content to watch him, his handsome head ducked over his work, locks of green hair hanging down in his dark eyes. Tongue poking the inside of his mouth and then darting across his lips, or tracing a scar.

That smile. Everyone found it so grotesque. She just found it sad, beautiful. Maybe because she knew the reason why.

Even so, she never really touched them.

"…Mistah Jay?"

"Mm."

Her throat tightened and her face burned with humiliation. "Can I at least get a little…a little kiss?"

Another sigh rolled from him and he sat down his pen, sitting up and staring at her through uneven eyes. They dug into her for a moment before closing; his lips pulled back in a tiny grimace and he said, "_If_ I do, will you just let me _work_?"

The girl nodded, pigtails bouncing as she did. This new sigh was relieved; the Joker leaned back in his seat and let his legs splay, his hand tapping on his thigh. "C'mon."

There were no half-kisses for Harley. At least, not for Harley with the Joker. No, kisses with him—they were long and sweet and…terribly brutal, sometimes. But they were never just a kiss, not when it was really kissing. And so into his lap she slid, warm his body hot through the fabric of her sweatpants and even her tank top. Her head tilted, her lips feel apart; they grazed his permanently-damp ones, ones that were closed.

NO OUTLET

She kept driving.

Her nose rubbed against his as she nuzzled his mouth, suckling red lips and lifting fingers to trace the contours of a white jaw. This was how it was when he worked. Him so unresponsive.

Well not tonight.

Her mouth shifted over jus a few inches, her smiling mouth open but just centimeters from his face, just a breath. A pink tongue darted out and tapped at a hideous valley of scar tissue.

For once, it wasn't his own.

She could hear his sharp, suppressed gasp, so much like her own.

Harley's heart slammed in her ears and she leaned closer, nuzzling her way up one side of a crooked, cruel smile. Lips, tongue, fingers tracing both sides, through the deep grooves, over twists in flesh. Her tongue tapped the corner of his mouth again and he shuddered, obligated by some nervous condition to echo the movement. Harley's tongue swept across his lower lip, then between them, meeting his much more restless one.

Thumbs traced up and down scars and his mouth opened, lips half-working against her far more intense assault. His hands found her waist, then her hips; soon they were cupping her behind and pulling her against him. Against something hard that wasn't there a moment ago.

She smiled, moved away, letting her nose brush his.

"Thank you, Mistah Jay."

Dark eyes darted over her face and brow lifted imperceptible as she dismounted him, fingers running over his hair while she stepped around him. She was three stairs down when she heard him turn in his chair.

"Harl."

"Yes, Mistah Jay?"

"…Why don't you, uh, go ahead and sleep in _daddy's _bed tonight, _hm?_ Sound good to you?"

Yes. Yes. _Yes._

"Sure thing, Mistah Jay."

"All right. _Night_ for now."

Everything in her was hot as she danced away, away to the bedroom, away to soft pajamas, away to a broken mattress to wait for her puddin'. Her puddin' with all his genius. Her puddin' with all his scattered thoughts.

Her puddin' with all his delicious little tics.

* * *

Hey, it's not bad. Not great, but I'm really tired. What do you want from me? XD I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
